THE BISHOP OF MARGUS.
The two sides of that mountain were like the prospect laid out beneath
the eyes of man when, in the midst of life, he pauses to survey the
past and to scrutinize the future. Dark and gloomy, on the one hand,
stretched masses impervious to the eye, wrapped in uncertain mists and
vague, undefined confusion, where nothing was known, nothing was sure,
but that there lay ruin, chill neglect, and desolation, even unto
those regions where the Cimmerian darkness of the grave covered and
confounded all. On the other hand, stretching out like the sweet
memories that lie along the path of youth, was seen a fair and
beautiful land, with the Danube rushing on through the midst towards
Margus: valley and hill, fragments of the Dacian forests, but broken
by broad cultivated plains, a watch-tower here and there; then, within
their guardian line, a farm, a villa, gardens, and pasturages, with
the towers and walls of Margus at about eight miles' distance; and
beyond, but to the right, the Mons Aureus rising, like a pile of lapis
lazuli, in blue majestic splendour to the sky.
Theodore paused to gaze; and feelings, mingled, intense, and even
painful, woke in his bosom at the sight of those fair scenes from
which he might so soon be driven, contrasted with that dark and gloomy
land which might prove his only refuge.
He turned, however, after a moment's silence, to ask the Hun if he
could, in truth, prefer the one to the other; but the barbarian had
left him without further leave-taking, and his dark form was seen
riding rapidly towards the thickest part of the forest. Theodore still
remained gazing over the prospect; but, as he did so, he thought he
heard a distant shout of many voices rising up from the woods behind
him; and, fearful of any interruption in his course, he hurried on
upon the road which lay open before him.
Increasing tokens of civilization now met his eye at every step as he
proceeded; and shortly before he reached the shore, at the nearest
point to the city, he beheld more than one ferryboat, no longer a mere
raft, supported by inflated skins, but barks, provided expressly for
the purpose, and offering every convenience at which the mature art of
the Romans had yet arrived. Without question, the young Roman and his
followers were admitted into one of the boats, and in a few minutes
were landed on the other side of the Danube, in the midst of all that
hurry, bustle, and luxurious activity which marked the precincts of a
Roman city, even in a remote province, and in the immediate vicinity
of those barbarian allies who were soon destined to overwhelm all
those soft and splendid scenes in blood and ashes.
The Roman dress and air of Theodore and his two freedmen enabled them
to pass on unquestioned through the gates; where a few soldiers, with
their spears cast idly down, their helmets laid aside, and their
swords unbraced, sat gaming in the sun, offering a sad but striking
picture of the decay of that discipline which had once so speedily
won, and had so long preserved, the dominion of the world. Gayly and
tunefully carolled the flower-girl, as she tripped along with her
basketful of wreaths and garlands for the festal hall or the flowing
wine-cup; loudly shouted, with the ready cyathus in his hand, the
seller of hot wine in the Thermopolium; eagerly argued the lawyer and
the suiter as they hurried along to the tribunal of the duumvir; gayly
laughed the boys, as, followed by a slave bearing their books, they
hastened homeward from the school. Splendid dresses, fair faces,
magnificent shops, and chariots with tires of gold and silver, litters
with cushions stuffed with the flowers of the new-blown rose, met the
eye of Theodore in every direction; and as he looked on all this
luxury and magnificence, and compared it with the scenes he had just
quitted, he could not help asking himself, "And is this Margus? Is
this the city daily threatened by barbarian enemies? Is this the
extreme point of civilization, upon the very verge of woods, and
wilds, and hordes of savage Scythians?"
At the end of a wide open space, towards the centre of the town, rose
one of those beautiful peristyles--less light, but perhaps more
imposing, than the Greek--whereof so many had been constructed under
Hadrian. Within it appeared a massy temple, formerly dedicated to
Jupiter, but now consecrated to that purer faith destined to remain
unsullied through everlasting ages, notwithstanding the faults, the
follies, and the vices of some of its ministers.
At the moment that the young Roman entered the forum, the mingled
crowd of worshippers was descending the steps of the temple; and above
them, between the two central pillars of the portico, clothed in his
sacerdotal robes, and with his extended hands giving his blessing to
the people, stood a tall and princely form, in which Theodore
instantly recognised the Bishop of Margus, the brother of his father.
Dismounting from his horse, the young Roman waited for a moment, until
the crowd had in some degree dispersed, and then, ascending the steps
towards the door through which his uncle had retired into the church,
he asked a presbyter, who was still lingering on the threshold, if he
could speak with the bishop.
"You will find him at his dwelling, my son," replied the presbyter:
"he has passed through the church, and has gone to his mansion, which
lies just behind it."
Theodore took the direction in which the presbyter pointed with his
hand; and, followed by Cremera and the other freedman, reached the
entrance of a splendid dwelling, round the doors of which stood a
crowd of poor clients, waiting for the daily dole of bread and wine.
Theodore found some difficulty, however, in obtaining admission to his
uncle's presence. "He is gone to divest himself of his sacred robes,"
one slave replied; "He is busy in private devotion," asserted another;
a third plainly refused to admit the stranger, unless previously
informed of his name and purpose.
"Tell the bishop," said Theodore, "that it is a Roman from
Constantinople, who brings him tidings of his friends, which it much
imports him to hear as soon as may be."
There was the accent of command in the young Roman's speech, which
made the slave hasten to obey; and in a moment after the curtain,
beneath which he had passed in order to communicate the message to the
bishop, was drawn back, and Theodore found himself in the presence of
his uncle.
The prelate gazed upon him for a moment in silence. It is probable
that at first he did not recognise the boy, whom he had not seen for
several years, in the young man that now stood before him; and yet
that faint and twilight recollection--more like the act of perception
than of remembrance--by which old impressions first break upon us,
before memory has time distinctly to trace out the particulars, caused
the shades of manifold emotions to pass over his countenance, as his
eyes remained fixed on the face of his nephew.
"Theodore!" he exclaimed at length, "Theodore! what in the name of
Heaven has brought you here at this hour, and under these
circumstances? Know you not that the barbarians demand my life to
expiate the sins of others? Know you not that they threaten to seek me
even here, and sate their vengeance in the blood of my flock, if I be
not given up to them? Know you not that the weak emperor, after having
faintly refused their horrible demand, now hesitates whether he should
yield his innocent subject, and the teacher of his people, to the
barbarous hands of his enemies? What was your father thinking of to
send you here? unless, indeed, he be bringing six legions to my aid,
and you be but the harbinger of the coming succour."
"Alas, my uncle," replied Theodore, mournfully, "no such tidings have
I to tell; nevertheless, my tidings are not few nor of little import;
but let us speak of them alone. Here there are many ears around us;
and you may perchance find it expedient to consider well what I have
to say ere you make it public."
As he spoke, he glanced his eye towards the crowd of slaves and
officers who filled the other end of the hall in which they stood; and
the bishop, who had been moved to indiscretion by the sudden
appearance of his nephew, resumed the caution, which, though a bold,
ambitious man, formed part of his natural character, and, making a
sign with his hand, said merely, "Follow me." As he spoke, he led the
way through the great hall to a small room beyond, from which a flight
of steps descended to a beautiful garden, laid out in slopes, and
adorned with many a statue and many a fountain. The curtain, drawn
back between it and the hall, exposed to the view any one who
approached on that side, while on the other the terraces lay open to
the eye, so that naught with a step less stealthy than that of Time
himself could approach unperceived.
"Here, my nephew, here," said the bishop, "our secret words will not
pass beyond our own bosoms. Tell me what brings you hither at a moment
of such earnest difficulty--at a moment when I know not whether the
base emperor may not deliver me up to the barbarian Attila. I who have
abandoned all--state, dignity, the paths of ambition and of glory--to
devote myself to the service of God and his holy church. Yet tell me,
first, how fares your father, how fares my noble brother? Why wrote he
not in answer to my letter beseeching him to use his power with
Theodosius in my behalf?"
"I come," replied Theodore--who, judging that the bishop's questions
regarding Paulinus were but formal words of no deep meaning, proceeded
at once to the point on which his uncle's curiosity was really
excited--"I come, my uncle, to seek refuge and shelter with you
against the anger of a base, weak monarch. Three days' journey behind
me is your cousin, Julia Flavia, with her children and my sister.
Persecuted by Theodosius for no fault committed, we thought that if we
could find shelter in the world it would be with my uncle at Margus."
"Safety at Margus!" cried the prelate, in truth affected by the
earnest and pleading tone in which his nephew spoke--"safety at
Margus! Oh, Theodore, Theodore! is there safety to be found on board a
sinking ship? Is there safety to be found between the opposing spears
of two hostile armies met in battle? You come to me at a time when I
know not whether the next moment may continue to afford security to
myself. You come to me at a moment when my soul is trembling--though
not with fear--no, but wavering with uncertain purposes, like a
loosened sail quivering in the blast of the tempest, uncertain to
which side it may be driven, or whether it may not be torn in
fragments from the mast. You come to me in such a moment as this for
refuge? But could not your father protect you--my great, my warlike,
my courtly, my all-powerful brother, who despised the poor-spirited
priest, and thought the robe and stole the refuge of a low ambition?
Oh, Paulinus, Paulinus! how I could have loved you! Yet what do I say,
Theodore? your dark robe! your untrimmed hair! your jewelless
garments! Tell me, boy, tell me, where is your father?"
"Alas," replied Theodore, "I have no father. He who was my father is
dead, murdered by the emperor!"
The living lightnings of fierce indignation flashed from the priest's
proud eyes; and after pausing for a moment, as if unable to give voice
to the feelings that struggled in his breast for utterance, he shook
his hand towards the sky, to which his eyes were also raised,
exclaiming, "Tyrant, thou hast sealed thy fate!" then, casting himself
down upon a couch, he drew his robe over his head, and Theodore could
hear him weep. The youth was moved; and at length he took his uncle's
hand in his, and pressed his lips upon it, saying, "I knew not that
you loved him thus."
"Yes, Theodore, yes!" replied the bishop; "I did love him, better than
he knew, better than I knew myself till this very hour. We had
different tempers, we chose opposite paths, we held opposite opinions.
That which I thought wisdom, he would misname craft; that which I held
as just, he would taunt as base. We were both, perhaps, ambitious, but
in different ways; and his ambition led him to contemn mine; and yet,
Theodore, and yet I loved him better than any other human being. When
I strove for eminence in the state which I had chosen, when I raised
my voice and made the proud to bow, the sinner to tremble, piety to
kindle into enthusiasm, and devotion to reach its highest pitch, my
first imagination was what Paulinus would think; my first hope to
tower above his low opinion. He was the object and the end of many of
my best and greatest actions: almost every thought of my life has had
some reference to him. I have disputed, opposed, quarrelled with
him--nay, even hated him, and yet belied my own heart by loving him
still!"
The bishop paused, and, crossing his arms upon his broad chest, fixed
his eyes upon the sky, and remained for several minutes in gloomy
silence, as if summoning up before the eye of memory all the visions
of the past. "Theodore," he continued at length, speaking in a
rambling, musing tone, "Theodore, I will be to you as a father. What
my fate may be, I know not; but my brother's murderer shall never
deliver me up to the power of the barbarians. Do you mark me? He shall
learn that, deprived of the just defence of my sovereign, I can defend
myself. But it matters not! You are too young for such counsels!
Paulinus, my brother, thou art dead; but thou shalt be avenged. The
cup of wrath wanted but one drop to make it overflow, and thy murder
has poured an ocean into it. Now tell me, Theodore--the Lady Flavia,
where is she? She shall be welcome to Margus. Within these walls my
power is unlimited. The people and their magistrates are equally my
flock and my servants; so that I can assure a welcome to those who
seek it. Where is Flavia? Why came she not with you?"
"Because tidings reached us every day," replied Theodore, "of
messengers sent from Constantinople, bearing orders for our
arrest--perhaps for our death. Three of these messengers, we learned,
had taken the way to Margus; and ere we could venture to trust
ourselves here, I came on to see whether the power of my uncle could
give us shelter and security."
A smile of bitter meaning gleamed over the countenance of the bishop.
"Three messengers!" he said--"three messengers, bearing orders for
your arrest or death! No later than yesterday morning, three
Byzantines--for so part of their dress bespoke them--were found, slain
by the Huns, as it appeared, near Tricornium, higher up the river.
Perchance these have been the messengers, and have delivered their
just and clement letters to the wrong hands."
"It is not unlikely," replied Theodore. "They must have been near that
town early in the morning of yesterday; for I had news of their
course, and crossed the Danube lest, with fresh horses, and perhaps a
guard from that station, they might overtake and seize me."
"They have been seized themselves," said the prelate, setting his
teeth close. "The smiter has been smitten; the messenger of death has
found death himself. But how escaped you the Huns yourself, bold
youth! For the last month they have made excursions across the river,
destroying wherever they came. How was it that you, who without
permission entered their own land, passed through them in perfect
safety?"
"In truth I know not," replied Theodore, "unless it was that I began
by speaking to the ferrymen in the Alan tongue."
"That has saved you," replied the prelate; "but now, my son, we must
not lose time. These are days of danger, when the very air is full of
winged death. We must not leave the Lady Flavia and her children one
moment longer unprotected than is needful. Tell me with what company
she travels. Ye were not, I trust, obliged to fly in such haste as to
leave all your domestics behind."
"Oh no!" replied Theodore; "the tribune Marcian, who brought us the
sad tidings of my father's fate, and warned us of our own danger, took
care that all the slaves should accompany us; and saw that all the
gold and jewels, either belonging to Flavia, or which my father had
left in Illyria, should be borne with us, to escape the greedy hands
of Theodosius. Thank God, we have enough to support us with dignity
till this storm be blown away, and the sun shines once more."
"Alas, Theodore!" replied the priest, "seldom is it with man that the
sun, once clouded, ever shines again. The bosom of nature, torn by the
tempest, soon recovers its gayety and its beauty, or, swept by the
shower, wakes up again in brighter loveliness; but the heart of man,
beaten by the storms of fate, never regains its freshness, but is
dulled and withered by every drop that falls, and revives not again
till his short day is closed. But I will send out to greet Flavia, and
bid her welcome. Glad am I that she brings with her wealth and
attendants. Not that I could not myself have supplied her with all she
might need; for, thanks be to Him who gave, my worldly wealth is
great--greater than is perhaps good for securing the treasure in
heaven. Nevertheless, all our wealth may not be more than sufficient
for the purpose that I have in view. I will send out to find her, and
bring her hither."
"Nay, my uncle," replied Theodore, "I will myself be the messenger.
She will not give herself to the guidance of any one if I do not
return. I am not weary; and an hour or two of rest would enable me,
had I but fresh horses for myself and the freedmen, to seek her at
once. This bank of the river, by the death of these messengers, is now
free, and the way is shorter."
His uncle made some opposition on the plea of his nephew's youth and
yet unconfirmed strength, but that opposition was slight, and soon
overcome. There was, indeed, an eagerness, a haste, an impetuosity, in
the bishop's whole demeanour, which betokened a keen and ambitious
mind struggling with difficulties and dangers which he feared not, but
estimated at their true value. He seemed, to the eyes of Theodore,
like a skilful swordsman contending with a multitude of enemies, with
all his energies awake and active to avoid every blow, to parry every
thrust, and to return upon his assailants their strokes with usury.
When at length he consented that his nephew should go, and gave him
into the hands of one of the officers, with directions to provide for
his repose and refreshment, what was the impression which his uncle's
conduct had made upon Theodore's mind? The bishop had been kinder than
he expected; he had evinced more affection for his father, more deep
love for that dead parent whose memory was enshrined in the heart of
Theodore, and revered as the relics of some pure and sainted martyr;
he had shown more depth of feeling, and more of the energy of talent,
than the youth had been taught to believe he could display; and yet
Theodore was not satisfied. The diamond touchstone of a pure and
innocent heart, without an analysis, without minute investigation,
detected at once the alloy which ran through the seeming gold: he saw
that there was much of goodness, he saw that there was much of power,
in his uncle's character; but there wanted the simplicity, the
mildness, the humility of the Christian priest: there were strong
feelings without strong principles, high talents without high honour,
and through all his best and brightest qualities ran a vein of
brilliant selfishness, stimulating nearly, in appearance, the more
precious things with which it mixed; but, oh! how different in
intrinsic value.